The Sun Will Set for You
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. "I lie spread-eagled on my back, enveloped in darkness. I am waiting, waiting in the silence of death. I don't know if I should be sad or thankful that the death is not my own."


**Author's Note: I have been told (and I rather agree) that this is the best thing I've ever written. Kind of funny that it's not even about a main character. I got the idea for this from Linkin Park's music video of their song "Shadow of the Day"; almost everything the character does in this story is based on what Chester does in the music video. I also added in some things I wish they'd have done in the music video, to tell a story rather than just kind of looking weird XD Please note that _this is not Scar._**

**N.B.: This is a Banks Songfic. Rather than being your normal kind of songfic where the lyrics of the song are interspersed throughout the story, the lyrics are used sort of like an outline for the story. Those who are familiar with the song may be able to tell which parts were inspired by which lines. This is a songfic of Linkin Park's "Shadow of the Day." This is also the first time I've done a Banks Songfic of the music video as well.**

I lie spread-eagled on my back, enveloped in darkness. I am waiting, waiting in the silence of death. I don't know if I should be sad or thankful that the death is not my own.

Ah, there it is. The shrill beating of a tiny tin hammer against a small tin bell that sounds out the coming of day. My hand reaches over of its own accord, shuts the alarm off. I look at the small round face, though I know what time it will say. I do this merely out of habit, not to confirm that it is indeed 11:55. I sit up in my bed, but I do not yawn or rub my eyes like any other morning. For this is not 'any other morning.' This is Today.

My body moves mechanically, and I am only vaguely aware of what I am doing. The feel of cloth, the embrace of robes around my chill body. The days have begun to warm up more and more, but they are still cold. Add another layer, tighten the band around the waist, keep out that lingering chill. Shivering weakens the body, and I need all the strength I have.

The water pouring into the washbasin. A cold splash that makes me gasp, my breath stolen like a purse in the marketplace. Yet even that cannot stir me from the reverie into which my mind has fallen. The water is but on the surface of my skin, and I am in here. The razor is sharp – I sharpened it just last week. Get rid of that stubble, and I examine my reflection as though I am preparing for a party (and in a way, I am). I look the same as I did yesterday – scrawny limbs, thin nose, sunken cheeks. My sleek dark hair is just as shiny as always, my eyes as red as always. But somehow, I think I look different. I am a stranger to my own eyes. I stare for many long moments into the crimson eyes reflected back at me, wanting to ask them who I am.

If I asked anyone else that question, they would tell me to not be silly. They would tell me my name, list my relatives. They would give my age, my accomplishments, the number of enemies I have slain so far. They would tell me I am a warrior priest, loyal to Ishbala, distinguished among my comrades. But they could not tell me who I am.

I turn from the mirror and float surreally to the central room of my house. I can see the remains of last night's meal on my table. There is still some bread left, so I make a simple breakfast out of it before I leave. How sad, that the last meal I shall eat in this house is so meager. But there are shortages of luxurious provisions, and bread has been my staple the past few months.

The curtains are soft against my fingers as I part them, looking out the window at the dusty street below. I can see that they are coming now, and I wonder how I could have not heard them until now. People are screaming, yelling, running, crying. The guns are firing, small explosions erupting in small pockets of fire and smoke. I can distinguish a few shouts: those calling the names of the wounded or freshly slain, or the many angry cries of, "Ammy dogs!"

I am aware that my face betrays no emotion as I stand there and watch a group of my kinsmen captured, disarmed, and kept under guard. More continue to fight, continue to resist, but I find no emotion stirring my heart. Neither pity nor despair, neither hope nor grief. And I wonder what has happened to the sentimental youth who cried at his sister's wedding as well as her funeral. Was that truly me? Or was I an imposter even then?

The curtains fall back and my view of the street is cut off, but I can still hear the screams. No, wait. Aren't those just the dying cries of Amestrian soldiers falling under the blows of my bullets, the same wails that prey upon my mind every night I can glean even an hour of sleep?

I remain amazed that I do not feel tired. It was late enough when I lay down last night, but I doubt I slept more than two hours at most, so intent was I on planning every moment of this morning. Perhaps it is only the numbness of my sleep-deprived mind that deceives me into thinking I am not tired.

I begin to turn from the window, when my eyes alight on a slightly crumpled paper on the windowsill. I pick it up, then remember what it is. My older brother sent it to me, begging me not to do this (he knows me too well). And I might have followed his advice...had it not been preceeded by the news that he had been killed in that skirmish in the Kanda district. I've heard it was one of those Amestrian State Alchemists – those demons who have stolen a human guise.

My brother told me to live on, to survive the rest of this war, to carry on our family name. But oh my brother, you do not understand! It is _because_ I am the last that I do this. My brother would never have understood what I am about to do. Life was always precious to him, more precious than anything or anyone else. Thus, he would never be able to understand how I feel, now that my mother, my father, my sister, and all three of my brothers are dead.

I drop the paper onto the floor and make my way across the room to the satchel I placed there the night before. As I check to make sure everything is in readiness, I glance back at the mirror. What have I become? What has my dead family done to me? One might think that the dead have no influence over the living, but I can see now that they are killing me. Who would have thought, Mother, Father, that you could be murderers like your children?

That is everything now. Just to put on my sandals – there. Take one last look around my cluttered room; this is the last I will see of it. I suppose I might have bothered to tidy it up a bit, but it will probably be blown up or demolished soon anyway. Now for one last look at the clock – 12:10.

Excellent. I have five minutes left. Right on time.

The trip down the stairs to the back garden is far too short for my liking. I wish it would take longer, for my feet are suddenly reluctant to continue. Perhaps I am more like my brother than I thought.

I lock the door behind me, though I know there is little use for that. Once again, it is a matter of habit, of my body moving independently of my mind. And I wonder if anyone will ever venture into my house, if they will wonder who used to live here – as I have wondered every time I hide out in some abandoned shell of a home.

But there is no time for that now. I am increasingly aware of the minutes ticking by. My time is nearly up, and as I move from the back garden to the alleyway, I find all my senses sharpened to pencil-fine points. I hear the scraping of my sandals against sand and stone, I feel the crisp breeze against my cheeks, and I smell the concoction of smoke, death, and gunpowder that I have grown accustomed to in the past five years or so.

Look at this street! There are so many people out here – alive, dead, dying. Everyone seems to be running and yelling for one reason or another. I can't understand why they would; my heart is at complete peace, and I feel nothing. Were I a different man, I suppose I might be tempted to turn around, to reconsider my decision once faced with it. But all the pieces are already in motion, and I will not rebel against the greater game being played. I suppose this is what is meant by Ishbala's will (and I ought to know, being one of His priests).

I don't even need to look up at the windows of the house opposite to know that the sniper will be there, ready to fire at the precise moment. The trick is to make sure the sensitive bomb concealed in my satchel isn't hit in the crossfire before the Amestrians are in range. That will be my mission.

So here I go. No one seems to notice me yet. Good. There are too many people rushing past. I'll shield my satchel with my arms as I move to the middle of the street. I think my mind is clouding over again – which is a pity, I must say.

Ah, now they see me. _Wham – wham – WHAM!_ Those little black monsters tear at the flesh of my back, ripping at my skin, burrowing down into muscle and bone. More and more, as I fight to keep my balance. Now I can taste the blood in the back of my throat, a sour metallic tang that slowly seeps across my tongue. As if that is the signal, I slowly realize that my legs are giving way. I hastily shift the satchel in my arms so I will not fall onto it, and collapse onto my side. My blood gushes faster and faster up my throat, choking the air from my lungs. I open my mouth to gasp, but only blood comes out. I can see it trailing away in the dust.

Oh, look. I can see the sky from here. Funny, I didn't think it was so late in the day. I thought it was only a little after noon, but the sun is setting! The sky is golden, and darkening at the edges. I can feel the ground shaking under my feet as people run past and around me. Soon, that sniper will fire, or someone will accidentally step on my satchel. Either way, the plan will work.

I wonder if anyone will remember me when I'm gone. I have no family, so will anyone care that I've died? Will they say that I gave my life for the cause? Will they say that I died at 12:15 p.m. on March 27, 1908? Or will I be just another casualty of war, another dead body on the ground, another statistic in the forgotten memory of history?

So here I lie, spread-eagled on my back. I am enveloped in darkness, waiting, waiting in the silence of death. And this time there can be no comfort, for I know this death is my own.


End file.
